


Deadlines and Commitments

by Milo



Category: One Piece
Genre: "milo why did you put an oc in this" it's my city i'll hire whatever secretary i want - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, anyone tagged in the characters gets a speaking role, katakuri being miserable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2019-09-26 17:19:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17145863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milo/pseuds/Milo
Summary: The Charlotte Family solidifies its ties with the Donquixote Family in Big Mom's preferred fashion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ~~"milo stop naming fics after the killers songs" fucking make me~~
> 
> This is a continuation of the oneshot, "Dollhouse," from [this collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16492922/chapters/38626727)! It was meant to be my BigBang piece but...life IRL is extremely stressful and I had to make the decision to bounce from there for my own well-being. So I decided to just go ahead and post what I got every so often when I have a free moment.
> 
> As always, a big thank you to everyone who leaves kudos, comments, and bookmarks!! You guys keep me posting my writing and I love hearing from you.

“You’re to be wed in two months.”

It’s a statement Katakuri’s heard so very many times, from his mother to a younger sister. On many such occasions, it was met with cheerful eyes or leering smirks depending on the sister. A wistful wedded life, or a happy little homicide. 

That said duty would be shackled to him had never once crossed his mind. And he has to ask his mother to repeat herself.

“Don’t play deaf and dumb with me,  _ boy _ ,” she spits. Though he retains his stoicism, inwardly, it strikes fear into him. “Preparations are underway. You’re dismissed.”

She says it as though she’s inviting him to tea. So simple and average, and moments later she’s skipping off, humming a merry tune in her craggy voice and clicking her heels on their marble floor. For a moment, Katakuri can do little more but stare after her, even as attendants (fearful of his temper) gently inquire various things from a safe distance. He doesn’t answer.

He’s getting married. It sounds like some kind of sick joke. 

Thirty-five years he’s bared his life to her every beck and call. If it was for his family, he’d walk over hot coals, take bullets, raise hell. He’d saddled himself with the entirety of Tottoland’s well being, a lifetime commitment.

And yet--she’s signed him away to some lowlife urchin without even consulting him prior. As if he was simply a faceless poker chip in her massive betting pile. Deep down, he knows that’s exactly what he is. Another head of cattle in her herd of livestock. He knows it to be true. Still, something inside of him burns white hot as the realization sets in. 

As he quietly complies to this and that, color choices, cake flavors, party favors--it feels as though he’s slowly being drenched with quick-drying cement.

 

* * *

 

Couch stuffing flies across the room. Splinters of wood spatter the floor as the firm frames of chairs crack when struck. Fragile china shatters. Fine-tuned to flesh and bone, his trident rips through simple furniture as if it were butter.

How could she? How  _ could _ she? Was he not her perfect son? Was he not  _ everything  _ she ever wanted??

He grits his teeth together and slashes at the thick mochi walls of his living room. They’re gooey, firm from exposure to air. He busts through the cabinets. Ceramic dishes fall in stacks. They break to jagged pieces. The range, faucet, microwave oven, refrigerator--nothing is safe from his wrath. Nothing can  _ sate _ his wrath.

Why?  _ Why _ was he worth so _ little _ to her?

With nothing else to destroy, he’s forced to stop. He pants heavily, staring at the remains of his furniture at his feet. The destroyed sink basin is oozing water onto the floor. Gas is leaking from the torn line. He grinds broken glass under his heels as he somberly withdraws his trident into his body and lumbers off to his bedroom.

Worthless. Flawed. Imperfect.  _ Marred _ . 

**_Bad_ ** child.

He lays down on his bed and stares at the ceiling without seeing it. Even the brother his siblings so greatly revered, the brother to whom all looked up to for assistance, wasn’t enough to avoid being discarded by their impulsive mother on a whim. To think even he would be bartered away to low-ranking pirates.

(Somewhere inside, that little child watching the great, towering presence of his mother and wishing for one moment that she’d praise him trembled at the realization that he meant nothing to her.)

 

* * *

 

Slipping away from Tottoland was surprisingly easy. Nobody really took much notice. He’d come back in due time. He always came back. Why should anyone worry?

Perhaps they would, if they’d known where he was going. 

There were such precious few moments in his life he allowed himself to be that imperfect son, that daily snack time being the main one. Yet another, quieter indulgence was an island far beyond Tottoland. A tiny, rocky islet dangerously close to Elbaf. Though a rather unassuming chunk of grassy land, it hid a long-held secret between two feuding sides.

He arrives on a dinghy he pilots himself. There is no one to greet him. Not unexpected, as he was arriving without prior warning. He ties the dinghy tight to the makeshift dock, disembarks, and hikes up a dirt path leading over a hill. There, he spots the familiar mossy little cottage, a few strays from the resident herd of sheep, and some sprouting crops. It notably lacks the one friendly half-giant resident with whom Katakuri had become well acquainted with.

Perhaps he was out in the fields.

His shoes are admittedly terrible for walking on this mountainous terrain. Heels don’t fare so well on gravel and dirt. Yet soon he makes his way through the field and becomes dwarfed by the intimidatingly large sheep. They scurry away at the sight of him, dull bells around their necks clanging as they go.

“Ah!  _ Sæll! _ ”

From a distance, Katakuri spots him. Towering over the sheep is an antlered blonde giant with a makeshift walking stick in his hand.

“Pardon the intrusion, Tofi,” Katakuri says.

“Never you mind, I welcome company to this lonely little island,” Tofi says with a smile. “Though, if I’d known you were coming, I’d have made up the guest room…”

“It was a last minute decision.”

As the sheep wander away toward a greener area of the island, Katakuri sits down in the grass (which is quite a deal longer than the grass of Tottoland and could almost hide him in plain sight). The air is fresh here.

“Ah. You are troubled?” Tofi guesses. Katakuri glances away, off toward the sheep in the distance. His large friend settles down beside him, laying on his back. “What is it that ails you, litla rúsínan mín?”

Katakuri stays silent, watching the flock graze on wild grasses without a care in the world. What a simple life. He turns to Tofi and sighs.

“It seems the punishment of marriage is not limited to my sisters,” he says.

Tofi blinks twice. “You’ve done something to upset her?”

“...I don’t know,” he admits.

He’d gone through his so many, _ so  _ many times in his own mind. Where had he slipped up? What had he done to displease her? What possible chink in his armor existed? He’d done everything she’d asked of him, and then some, until he’d solidified his status as the most reliable of all her children. He’d made himself invaluable. Or so he’d thought.

“Mother is prone to marrying off children she finds less desirable. What siblings remain become her armada.” Katakuri rests his head on his knees. “I do not understand why this falls upon  _ my _ shoulders.”

He hears Tofi hum and shift his arms behind his head. The man is so relaxed in all situations. It never fails to baffle him.

“The wants of the parent do not always match those of their children…” Tofi muses. “From what you have told me, she appears to be a rather strong-willed woman. However, this choice is yours to make.”

“It isn’t that simple,” Katakuri interrupts him.

“You’re a grown man, are you not?” Tofi replies. “Certainly, you should be allowed to decline something so important.”

Katakuri shakes his head. Tofi doesn’t understand. He  _ can’t _ understand. Defying his mother’s decisions--such mutiny would draw up reason for far harsher punishment than the shackles of marriage. Imprisonment, a shortened lifespan, death. Banishment from the only home he’d ever known. If--god forbid--he ran from this, such cowardice would plague him until his mother’s iron grip dragged him by the ankles back to Tottoland.

“She is my  _ family _ , Tofi,” Katakuri says softly. “I owe her for far too many things. I cannot reject a decision for the betterment of my family.”

Tofi leans up to look at him, settles into a seated posture, and smiles sympathetically. Katakuri feels his large hand on his back.

“There is yet still much you have to learn, my friend,” Tofi muses. “Each of us has our place, but it is not in where and how we serve others.” He rubs Katakuri’s shoulders. “If it is something you must do even against your will...then I offer my condolences. You will always be welcome here as a moment’s respite from whatever may bother you.”

Katakuri inhales deeply, exhales, then nods.

“Thank you.”

The tension of the situation still had his muscles clenched. His mind still raced. Out here on this rocky little island, though, he can have a few minutes to simply  _ breathe _ .


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I don't update two days in a row, but it's the holidays and I just brought home a new kitty so I'm in a bit of an emotional high right now. Enjoy!

Several weeks later, with the wedding ceremony drawing ever nearer, Katakuri receives the news of which family mother wished to join forces with. And with it, he finally realizes exactly why she’d made the decision in the first place. He’d been requested specifically by the Donquixotes.

Hated though they might be, the fallen Celestials gave mother an opportune chance to add a rare bloodline to her growing collection.

Not that there was any sizable population that actually belonged to said bloodline. Doflamingo’s crew was populated, by all appearances, with what the man had dredged up from a seedy bar in a heavily populated slum. They were ugly, revolting, uncivilized people who were taking full advantage of being in the presence of wealth.

One man left slime trails on the floor. Another had broken several potted plants (and spurned mother into breaking several more as she found the sound hilarious). A man with entirely too many guns happily entertained some of his simpler siblings by shooting plates midair. Two girls were devouring the fruit salad meant for an army. A baby was screaming his head off in the arms of his cooing, coddling mother.

Oh, how Katakuri disliked them.

Certainly, he could tolerate their presence. It was little more than what he dealt with on a daily basis anyway. However, these people were not his wild younger siblings. They were strangers, to whom concealing his displeasure was difficult.

Halfway through the greeting party, Katakuri excused himself and took his leave to a quiet balcony of the chateau. Here, the mindless noise of their guests was drowned out by the thick fondant and layer cake constituting the walls. Hopefully, his brothers and Smoothie would suffice as protection. But, try as he might, Katakuri’s mind drew back to that very party. Each face flashed as a quick memory. His skin crawled.

One of those people was to be his spouse. None of them were particularly good options.

“Long day?”

Katakuri glances down. Beside him stood one of the Donquixote Pirates. The man was about half his size, with short, wispy blonde hair. He looks very much so like someone had tirelessly worked to pretty him up; slicked back hair, perhaps a touch of makeup, a spotless suit which he looked slightly uncomfortable in (though he was doing his best to hide it).

“I do not derive the same pleasure from parties that my mother does,” Katakuri answers honestly. “I prefer solitude.”

“Yeah? Me too.”

The stranger pulls out a box of cigarettes from his suit pocket, sticks one in his mouth, and lights it. And his sleeve. Katakuri raises his eyebrows as the man quietly extinguishes the flame without much thought.

“Sounds funny coming from me, though, doesn’t it?” the man says. “The Family is rather boisterous.” He glances up at Katakuri with a friendly smile. “Though--I suppose you’d understand that feeling rather well, wouldn’t you?”

He did indeed.

Though Katakuri wasn’t much for conversation, the man keeping him company chatted on. His voice was soft, complimenting the tranquility of the night air. Much unlike the obscenely obnoxious train of misfits that Doflamingo had set loose in Whole Cake Chateau, this man was...admittedly charming. For a time, Katakuri found his head, managing to stabilize and release some tension even as the party was in full swing.

“For the record, you’re an absolutely terrible actor when it comes to being happy, Rocinante.”

It’s Doflamingo’s voice. His companion becomes reserved, eyes glazing over. The light hearted atmosphere dispels. Doflamingo appears in the flesh, approaching with a long stride and a full glass of champagne in his right hand. Unlike his usual carefree attitude, he seems serious. Rocinante turns to face him lifelessly, expressionless.

The air around them feels as though it could ignite at any moment. How interesting.

“--Oh, I didn’t see you there,” Doflamingo says to Katakuri, tone changing ever so slightly. “Fufufu. Nice to see you in person, Katakuri.”

Katakuri merely nods in acknowledgment. Doflamingo grins, steps between the two of them, and turns toward Katakuri. Rocinante seemed to fade into the background, less a person and more of a statue. Doflamingo’s complete lack of concern confirmed that.

“Hopefully my brother wasn’t troubling you?” he asks. “He’s not much for conversation, I’m afraid. You could say he’s a bit...” He swirls his champagne in a vague gesture. “Unsure of who he really is.” Doflamingo sips his drink. “Hopefully you’ll be able to set him straight, hm?”

Rocinante bows his head further. Katakuri looks between them and crosses his arms.

“Fights without motive are a waste of my time,” he deadpans.

Doflamingo chuckles. “An entertaining thought, but not what I was referring to,” he says. Then, he reaches behind him and seizes Rocinante’s shoulder. His brother flinches. “Excuse us. We’re going to have a short chat.”

Katakuri watches Doflamingo lead Rocinante out with a roughness that betrays their appearance as blood family. It’s hard to tell at this stage exactly what kind of rift exists between them. There’ll be time to learn, he supposes.

A lot of time, in fact, as it dawns upon him that Rocinante is his future spouse.

The fact would be confirmed three days later, as Katakuri and Rocinante’s first official meeting was scheduled. Mother had invited several reporters and widely-renowned underworld figures to this particularly interesting tea party. Unlike the formal wear party, this one was far more casual; everyone was allowed to pick their own outfits. Within reason. It was supposed to be more comfortable, after all, to allow for more natural conversation.

(Still, Katakuri didn’t say much. He never said much in the presence of his mother, who always dominated conversation.)

Rocinante looked much different than he had previously. Instead of the suit and swept back hair, he had more of a bedhead hairstyle, a striped button-up shirt, and jeans. But he looked uncomfortable and he, too, remained perfectly silent as his brother started up a friendly discussion about fine wine with Big Mom. “Friendly,” in that everyone else at the table was fully prepared to duck under their seats at a moment’s notice.

“I think you’ll see that Dressrosan red has a certain quality unique to it,” Doflamingo says. “It is, after all, highly sought after for that reason.”

“Pah!” Big Mom seizes a large handful of cake and tosses it into her mouth. “ _Bold_ of you to assume I would seek out something so highly coveted. What I value is the exotic and rare--the West exports a sweet wine that’s dyed a bright electric blue--”

“Fufu.” Doflamingo lifts his coffee cup to his lips. “I’m partial to warm colors. Orange, red, yellow... _pink_.”

Big Mom narrows her eyes at him, her lips twisting into a scowl. Katakuri tenses. The reporters glue their eyes on her figure. Then, she hefts another chunk of cake into her mouth and lets out a loud chuckle.

“Mamamama!” she laughs. “Sneaking in such a sly compliment...”

A collective sigh of relief.

“Oh, but it’s true!” One of Doflamingo’s crew, Jora, gestures with her teacup. On her knee is the toddler from before, tearing into a plastic teething ring. “You have quite the taste in fashion, if I do say so myself, mm!”

“Perhaps you _do_ truly have a taste for fine art,” Big Mom says to Jora.

Jora blushes and waves her off. “Oh, now who are you calling beautiful?”

The tension eases, if ever so slightly, as the two women converse about odds and ends. Big Mom takes a moment to bathe in the compliments, stroking her hair, grinning ear to ear. Katakuri sinks into his seat and focuses on his untouched slice of cake and cold coffee. A reporter eyes it as well, a silent question on her mind, but wisely chooses not to comment on it.

“Ah,” Doflamingo spoke up again. “Pardon the interruption, but I’ve come to notice the two key people in this wedding have yet to properly converse.”

“...Oh?” Big Mom looks down toward Katakuri. “Feeling a bit bashful, are we?”

“Fufufu. If so, they’re two of a kind.” Doflamingo elbows Rocinante roughly. “Perhaps we ought to excuse them for a private excursion. I’m sure you’ve an excellent idea in mind?”

He’s a smooth talker. Katakuri narrows his eyes. He instinctively doesn’t trust men of that sort. They _always_ want something more. Yet his mother lavishes the attention, as usual. It’s not as though he poses too much of a threat to her even if he had quiet thoughts of mutiny lying behind his colorful words.

“Of course, of course,” she says. She turns to Katakuri and gestures vaguely into the distance. “Katakuri, why don’t you and him take a leisurely stroll through the gardens?”

Katakuri nods and pushes his seat back. “Of course, mother.”


	3. Chapter 3

The gardens, as always, have been trimmed and tidied to perfection. Each hedge was shaped to its needs; organic sculptures of animals from bulky green shrubs, fancy fencing from gnarled bushes, stylized flower-bearing plants lying low to the ground in artistic arrangements. Gardening homies bounced around, singing show tunes as they watered plants and collected fallen flower petals, leaves, and other debris.

Rocinante stares at them, utterly mortified.

“...Is this...normal?” he asks quietly, gesturing to a hose homie slithering over the inlaid brick path.

“For Tottoland, yes,” Katakuri answers.

Rocinante makes eye contact with a conga line of watering cans wobbling off to another part of the gardens. He seems disbelieving of the idea that the garden could care for itself, or that something of this nature could be an everyday event.

“I’m--” Rocinante laughs nervously. “I’m not so sure I could get used to this.”

“If you are troubled by the thought, perhaps you will find solace in that there are none in my private residence.”

That appears to have made him more comfortable, though Rocinante was more thoughtful with even his footsteps--perhaps wondering to himself if the bricks, too, were living beings (they weren’t, at least not here they weren’t). Katakuri decided to lead him to a more quiet part of the gardens, one where he knew there were more regular plants. It was a greenhouse specifically for the production of high-quality ingredients.

It had been constructed to fit his mother comfortably, therefore it was large enough that the two of them were more or less dwarfed by their surroundings. He had to open the door for Rocinante, who was baffled by that fact in itself.

“...Ha, I’m used to being too tall for the doors,” he admits. “Everything’s so different here.”

“Tottoland is accustomed to many different sorts of people. Mother insists upon each kind of people to feel comfortable within her realm.”

It’s a recited line that he’s stated many a time, the truth of which he isn’t entirely sure of. But Rocinante pays it little mind, as he’s soon distracted by a collection of pumpkins grown far beyond their usual size. He hovers next to them, stretching up onto his toes to peek over them, and promptly loses his balance. As he stumbles backwards, Katakuri grasps a fistful of his suit, lifting him up by the scruff.

“Oh, ah, thank you,” Rocinante says. Katakuri sets him down and he pats his clothing back into shape. “You have good reflexes.”

Katakuri shrugs. It came with the job. Or the haki, he supposes.

Seconds later, Rocinante is off again as though he never stumbled at all. The contents of the greenhouse seem to have his interest piqued. There’s life in the man’s eyes, something genuine as he carefully touches the leaves of a nearby cherry tomato plant.

(Katakuri makes a mental note of it. The more he knows of this person, the easier it will be to keep him sated.)

“These are _cherry_ tomatoes?” Rocinante asks incredulously. “They’re bigger than my hands!”

“Our crops are specially modified to suit higher calorie requirements...” Katakuri quirks his eyebrows as Rocinante stare longingly at the vegetables. “...Would you care to try one?”

Rocinante pulls back from the plants as if they were hot to the touch.

“I’m not hungry,” he says quickly, waving off the suggestion. “I was merely admiring them. Your gardeners must be proud of their handiwork.”

With that, Rocinante shuffles onward, leaving Katakuri to ponder his behavior as he follows. Given that mother only accepted the highest standards of food for Tottoland, most who married into the family jumped at the chance to sample their produce. Plenty took advantage of the union to live a life of luxury. Doflamingo had already settled into the lavish lifestyle of fine dining and expensive wine.

So far he’d only seen Rocinante pick at everything slowly, cautiously, as though he had to savor it. How curious.

“There is no lack of resources here,” Katakuri informs him. “Our supplies, too, will soon become available as your own.”

Rocinante doesn’t respond at first. His eyes fall upon the plus-sized leaves of a turnip that likely rivaled his own height and weight. There are more than two dozen in the patch alone, and twice as many in their other greenhouses. Katakuri knows it from a stock count last month. More than enough to feed their army full.

“...Sorry. This is all so much to take in,” Rocinante confesses. “I’m not used to living in this kind of--” He gestures at the broad area of the greenhouse. “--excess.”

Fair enough.

The remaining tour is little more than a silent test of Katakuri’s reflexes. He catches Rocinante stumbling over pipes and ensnaring himself in creeping vines. Twice the man cuts himself on rose thorns. The man is far clumsier than anyone else he’d ever met--which was something to marvel at, given how reckless his younger siblings could be.

Eventually Rocinante came to sit upon a simple wooden crate that he had to climb in order to rest on. Katakuri gazes over the greenery, catching sight of a sprinkler system misting a bunch of strawberries to the far end. In comparison to everything, Rocinante seems so small; a rabbit hiding in the brush, ears perked for danger, ever cautious of his surroundings. He considers what sort of life Rocinante had come from to make him so hesitant, especially among fellow pirates. Reluctant to take what’s given freely, passive in his role as the wax seal on a deed that only served to benefit his brother.

He glances downward, catching Rocinante as he crosses his legs. His gaze is unfocused, cast out into the mass of plants.

“It’s not so bad in here,” Rocinante says. The sprinklers shift from berries to the peppers, gentle yet thoroughly soaking the soil. “Almost like you could walk inside and forget all of your concerns. Peaceful, quiet...”

He, too, can appreciate the silence for its improvement to his focus. A moment of calm before he returns to the usual storm.

But he does admit that it’s rather unnerving how easy it is for Rocinante to disappear into the background, as if he were little more than a ghost. Truly the essence of a bystander, a faceless person in the crowd. Barely existing in the grand scheme of things. If he hadn’t moved, and heightened Haki senses weren’t there to consider, Katakuri may have forgotten he was there at all.

(How easy it will be to pretend the marriage never happened, Katakuri thinks, and he can ignore this person to resume his usual business undisturbed.)


	4. Chapter 4

The second his sisters stopped babbling about the damned ceremony wouldn’t be a moment too soon.

Quite frankly he’d had enough of it all. Picking bowties and brooches, color-coordinating bullshit, streamers and silverware placement, picking decorative meals and guest lists. It was all far too much. Flowers? Why should he have to pick out the flowers? He couldn’t name more than three, and that was only due to the fact that he had to memorize them for a young sister’s birthday party.

He’s a soldier. A battle-hardened  _ soldier _ .

“Oh, this shade’s  _ hideous _ ,” Brulee says, sniffing indignantly as she tosses a photo of a maroon-colored suit behind her. “Who picked that one out?”

Katakuri eyes the photo with disinterest, head resting in his hand. “Galette.”

“Ah yes. That explains the cat embroidered on the pocket.” Brulee shuffles through the photos, tossing more to the floor. “As usual, Mama’s choices are thrifted from a donation box. Polka dots don’t suit you one bit.”

“I don’t see why I can’t simply wear black,” Katakuri says.

Brulee elbows him. “This is a  _ wedding _ , brother. Not a funeral. You can’t show up all dark and brooding while everyone else is throwing rice and eating cake.” She paces the room, tearing a few especially ugly suits to pieces, muttering, “Though I’m sure you’d much prefer someone had died to all this nonsense…”

“Technically, a loss of life is happening,” Katakuri replies.

She stops pacing and lowers the photos to give him an annoyed look. He merely shrugs in response.

“Oh no, whatever will you do. You’re marrying a small, completely harmless man that you could easily lock in a closet when you get bored with him,” she mutters sarcastically. “What’s there to complain about? You got lucky, brother. You could be putting a ring on the snot man instead.”

The mental image of seeing the drooping, goop-coated Donquixote Pirate in an equally as disgusting suit crossed his mind. It was only marginally less repulsive than the idea of  _ touching _ him long enough to find a greasy finger in that slimy mass and having to later  _ kiss _ that very same mucus. 

He shudders.

“Regardless, I wasn’t interested in any marriage to begin with,” he says. “I worked very hard to secure my place within our ranks, Brulee.”

“Tch. You know how  _ she _ is,” Brulee mutters. “Mind changes with the wind. She’ll put you wherever she so chooses.” She looks at the photos in her hands one more time before she throws them all into the air in a rain of ugly clothes. “I’d count your blessings, if I were you. At least you aren’t being forced out of Tottoland.”

Katakuri watches the pictures slowly float to the ground. “...You were supposed to help me pick one of those.”

“Wear white,” she replies. “All white. None of  _ this _ nonsense. Put a black skull on it somewhere if that’s not punk enough for you.”

She steps over the fallen photos to grab Katakuri’s neatly written list of preparations. After a quick scan of the list, she shakes her head in disbelief.

“ _ Flowers _ ? For goodness sake, they want  _ you _ to pick them out?” She groans. “Who did Mama put in charge of coordinating this wedding, the whole thing’s a fucking mess!”

Though Brulee can’t see it, he’s hiding an amused smirk just below the rim of his scarf. He’s never been the best at connecting to his sisters, but Brulee was different. Crass as her personality could be at times, she had a certain eye for things. She wasn’t as shallow as many of their siblings were. And she was one of but a few who wasn’t afraid to challenge him.

“Brulee,” he begins slowly. “Might you be interested in--”

“Can’t.” 

Her quick response catches him off guard, and he’s left staring at her. She clicks her tongue. 

“I know what you’re going to ask,” she says. “Mama already chose Perospero for that job. She wants me in my usual spot, keeping an eye on everything.”

Katakuri sighs disdainfully. Out of everything he had to decide upon, he’d wanted to at  _ least _ choose which sibling he wanted standing beside him at the altar. Inviting Brulee as maid of honor was a long shot, but the tiny glimmer of hope had been there. Deep down, he knew. They exchanged a solemn look. Something like that wouldn’t have been allowed. The official verdict would have said something of maintaining constant vigilance. That was a lie. Mother didn’t want Brulee’s scarred face anywhere  _ near _ the wedding or  _ any _ publicity photos.

Brulee seems to catch the minute change in Katakuri’s expression. She gives him an understanding smile.

“Slip a pocket mirror into your suit,” Brulee says. “I’ll be there in spirit.”

“I’d rather have you there in the flesh,” Katakuri whispers.

A pensive silence settles over them, only broken by the sound of a photo stuck in the open window wobbling in the breeze. Brulee comes to sit down beside him, more petite compared to his bulk, but still comfortable. She’s still smiling sadly, the premature wrinkles bunching up the scar across her face as she does.

“I know,” she says softly. “I know.”

Katakuri looks away, long-held guilt settling heavy on him once more. It’s his own fault she can’t go. Had she not been injured, she’d have never become a flawed child like him. There was so much she’d been forced to give up; potential relationships, marriage, party invitations, a proper social life, a family of her own. He knew she worked as hard as any of them, yet she’d been cast into the mirror world. Out of sight, out of mind.

He dodges another elbow jab from his sister.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, would you  _ stop _ doing that?!” she snaps. “Quit wallowing like a dramatic fairytale princess!”

“I’m not  _ wallowing _ \--”

“Tch! Don’t lie to me.” She points up at him. “You always give me  _ that _ look when you’re feeling sorry about yourself. None of this is  _ your  _ fault.”

He wants to protest, but Brulee is up again, reviewing the list of things he should be picking out, occasionally stopping to brush suit photos to the side with her feet. 

“Now then. Flowers….flowers.” She clicks a pen and begins writing down names. “Roses. Completely done to death, but Mama will insist on them. Perhaps something blue--forgetmenots, perhaps? Carnations…”

Her tone feels full of energy and pride, but he knows. He  _ knows  _ she wishes it were different. He’s seen the way she looks at their conventionally pretty sisters and sisters-in-law. The twinge of envy in her eyes when she’s instantly passed over for a grotesque appearance for a curvy blond woman with flawless skin.  And he can’t help but feel all the more disheartened knowing that the one person he’s wholeheartedly happy to be with won’t be coming to what their mother declared one of the most important events of his life.

“--Streamers?” She squints at the list. “And she wants  _ how many _ ?? Bah!”


	5. Chapter 5

There was no lack of free space within Katakuri’s home. Rarely was he ever home long enough to spend time within more than two rooms. Yet--that there was now a designated area within it suited specifically to Rocinante left him with a strange feeling.

It had been quickly crafted off to the side, down a hall where an unused spare bedroom had once been. Now, a door with the handle purposefully lowered marked the spot. Within, smaller furniture, a lower ceiling. Certainly, it was all tailor-made in Tottoland, looked very much so like it belonged in Tottoland. Still. It felt as though it were a space crafted to suit a completely different residence.

A part of his home given up to a stranger.

Once he had been free to do as he pleased. Express himself, remove his scarf, eat in peace. Now? His one place of solace was now to be shared with some man he’d met _twice_.

(Was there nowhere in which he could be himself?)

He casts a glance into the mirror of the rehearsal room. His weary eyes and guarded face look back at him.

It occurs to Katakuri that he’ll be required to remove his scarf at the wedding ceremony. In front of his family, all his unknowing siblings, the Donquixote Pirates--no, the entire known world. News that the notorious Big Mom was marrying off her second son would spread quicker than flame. Reporters, Marines, the World Government. It’d be headline news.

With his disgusting torn face smeared across the front page of every last newspaper.

His carefully guarded secrets...his carefully constructed persona...in an instant, what remains of his dignity will be shattered as he becomes the butt of every last joke. Surely, his mother knew about this. Surely, she did. It was a message of just how little he meant to her in the face of utter failure. He felt bile rising in his throat and an intense heat manifest into his fists. The trident leaks from his arm.

The desk breaks in two. Then, the rack of clothes beside him rattles and rips as he turns it to scraps and severed bars. Fake flowers, real flowers, multiple expensive vases. Everything crumbles before him.

Why? Why why **_why_**??

“Katakuri? Are you--?”

He whips a mochi fist at the person in the doorway.

Seconds too late, he realizes it’s Rocinante.

To another man who matched Katakuri’s strength and size, the attack might have been little more than a slap to the face. But Rocinante was so much smaller, so much weaker, that it was like swatting a _fly_. His fiance is hurled across the room and collides with the drywall. Katakuri stares, eyes wide, mouth ajar, as he realizes what he’s done.

The marriage is off. The deal is over. When Doflamingo rescinds his offer, mother will disown him. And, on top of it all, he’s hurt the one person who’s been decent to him during all of this.

Rocinante’s forehead is bleeding. The right side of his face is red and swollen, his lip split, and there are no doubt more injuries internally. Katakuri stands there, waiting for Rocinante to lash out. To pull out a weapon, to fight back, scream at him. Instead, he shakily picks himself up, dusts off some plaster from his pants, and limps back toward the doorway without a word.

“I--” Katakuri struggles to find the words. “Rocinante--”

“It’s fine,” he replies, voice steady.

Katakuri’s eyebrows crease. He can’t see Rocinante’s face and the man’s damn good at putting up a front when he wants. It’s hard to tell what he’s feeling. Premonitions give him no answers either.

“...Are you alright?” he asks softly.

Rocinante shrugs. “Been worse,” he mutters. He wipes the trickle of blood from his forehead. “I’m not going to tell Doflamingo, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He was indeed. But Rocinante’s lack of reaction, coupled with his existing knowledge of the siblings’ tense relationship, brings about far more worrying implications. Why _wouldn’t_ he inform his brother of abuse from his designated spouse?

“You were undeserving of that,” Katakuri says. “It would only be fair to inform your family of such behavior, would it not?”

“Ahaha.” Rocinante laughs quietly, shaking his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet.”

Slowly, Rocinante turns to face him. His cheek is swelling his eye shut, under which a large purple bruise is beginning to form. It appears intensely painful. Despite this, however, Rocinante is smiling. Katakuri feels a twinge of guilt. Wordlessly, Rocinante undoes two buttons on his shirt and tugs back the collar. There are three scars which match the bullets of a flintlock pistol. They’re all freshly healed, no more than a few months in age.

“He chose you, specifically, for a reason, you know,” he says, voice defeated.

 _Monster_.

Katakuri flinches as the word echoes in his mind.

 _Nothing but a vicious, bloodthirsty_ **_monster_**.

A reasonable assumption for an outsider, who’d only ever seen the damning bounty on his head, heard the rumors of his battle exploits, caught him towering above their heads. A reasonable assumption for his family, to whom he’d never shown anything but his aloof guise to. And now here, his own spouse, sees him as an executioner.

(That’s all he is, and all he’ll ever be, isn’t it? What is he, if not a _beast_?)

“It was careless of me to injure you. I apologize,” Katakuri says, wondering if the words will come off as hollow and meaningless. “I did not, and do not, have the intention of causing harm unto you during our union.”

Rocinante looks at him, eyes tired and face emotionless. Then, he turns, finds a piece of wrecked furniture to settle down on, and shakily sighs.

“Neither of us want to be here,” he guesses. Katakuri doesn’t reply. Rocinante cradles his cheek. “I suppose we really are two of a kind then, huh.”

“In normal circumstances, to share that feeling within matrimony warrants separation,” Katakuri says. “However, finding common ground will support a healthier relationship between us, unfortunate though it may be.”

With some hesitance, he settles down a few feet from his fiance. It finally processes in his mind that he’s destroyed everything in this room, and that it likely did little more than cement his place in Rocinante’s mind that he was an unstoppable, volatile destructive force. Yet Rocinante was still here. Even after he’d been bludgeoned. Katakuri caught him twisting the tassel of his hat around his finger out of the corner of his eye.

“...So, um,” he began. “I was coming over to ask you something…”

A premonition hits-- _You’ve worn that scarf each time we’ve met, right?_

“Yes,” he answers. “Is that something which concerns you?”

“You’ve--” Rocinante pauses, then looks up at Katakuri. “...How did you know what I was going to ask?”

“Well-developed Haki.”

“...Huh.” Rocinante nods. “Well I was--I was thinking,” he says. “We’re having pretty much everything planned out for us at the wedding, aren’t we? There’s not a whole lot we’ve got a say in.” He glances up at Katakuri. “I thought it might be a bit more comfortable if we--if we can be ourselves, if only in a small way.”

Katakuri raises his eyebrows curiously. Rocinante continues.

“I was going to suggest that you keep the scarf and I’ll bring my hat.” He gestures to the floppy red hat on his head. “If your mother’s okay with that.”

Oh. Katakuri blinks. His outburst from before feels like a childish tantrum as he’s filled with immense relief. Rocinante, whether he knows it or not, recognizes his need for privacy. That simple respect of his personal well-being, Katakuri muses, is far more than he could ask for in the face of all this. He grins, if only so slightly, under the safe cover of his scarf.

“An interesting suggestion,” he replies. “I will see what I can do.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positive support I've gotten in response to this fic!!

The bruise across Rocinante’s face is matched with a smaller, deep blue contusion under his other eye the following day.

Rocinante shrugs it off as though it’s nothing. His explanation is that he’s clumsy. There’s little room for questioning; moments later, Rocinante is dragged away by a gaggle of Katakuri’s sisters, each armed with their own sticker-encrusted kaboodle, images of makeovers no doubt dancing in their heads.

While Katakuri has indeed seen Rocinante’s ability to injure himself firsthand, and while, indeed, Rocinante was putting up an excellent front--something was decidedly _off_. The atmosphere of the chateau had him on edge for several weeks now. The carefree attitudes of Doflamingo and his subordinates reeked of superficiality. The looks in the eyes of Doflamingo’s followers whenever they caught sight of Rocinante...it was not too dissimilar to those which mother had given her ex-husbands prior to their eradication.

(That, and he’d heard the telltale clicks of loading flintlocks during group gatherings. As though the men were waiting, just _waiting_ to see Rocinante’s blood and brains splattered against the walls.

And there was that familiar twinge--his fiance’s words about his brother’s devious intentions echoing within--)

No. Katakuri shakes his head. There’s no time to reminisce on painful truths when there are far more important things at hand. He casts a glance down the hallway where Rocinante had disappeared. The voices of his sisters echoed from further down it, still cheerful and pleasant. Safe.

With that, he heads down to the lower floor of the chateau and out through the main doors. The square is filled to the brim with hired help; exterior decorators, painters, florists, handymen, and singing homies.

Banners in the wedding’s chosen colors--a shade of maroon close to Katakuri’s hair and carnation pink--were in the process of being fixed to buildings and tables. And there were many, many tables in various sizes. The largest of which was likely placed where the gigantic wedding cake was to be. It likely wouldn’t survive mother’s excitement.

Doflamingo and his subordinates are absent from the scene, save for that one woman and her blonde-haired child, who was in the process of ripping a plastic toy shark in half. He briefly considers questioning her. From the heated argument about painting styles that she and several designers are having, Katakuri makes the wise decision to find a different subordinate to approach.

The Family was being housed several blocks away in a villa designated for honored guests (and those whom mother felt the need to keep a particularly close eye on without raising suspicion). It was a large building made from saltwater taffy, twisted and twirled to form towers, rooms, and balconies. Again, Doflamingo’s underlings didn’t hesitate to live life to the fullest. They’d swarmed the building as though it was their new permanent residence.

Their captain, too, was enjoying his stay. Ironically, though the villa had been constructed near to the sea, a pool of sparkling water with a spacious lounge area completed the picture of luxury. It was there that Katakuri spotted Doflamingo, shirtless, reclined in a beach chair made from strips of red licorice.

“Ah, why hello, Katakuri,” Doflamingo greets with a too-wide smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Katakuri eyes the scene around them; the green-haired child paddling in the pool, several young girls (two of whom being Katakuri’s sisters) playing with a set of dolls by the water, and Doflamingo with two giggling women leaning against each shoulder. Katakuri crosses his arms.

“Might we talk in private?” he asks.

Doflamingo eyes him from behind his reflective sunglasses, silently grinning, silently scanning for Katakuri’s motives. As though it were an unspoken battle of wits he fully intended to win. Katakuri narrows his gaze. Then, Doflamingo gestures for his company to leave him and he gets up from his seat on the lounge chair.

“Of course, of course…” Doflamingo says. “I _always_ have time for my future brother-in-law.”

(Oh, Katakuri _heavily_ dislikes that sentence.)

The children around the pool perk up as Doflamingo takes his leave. They debate whether or not to follow, clearly concerned for his welfare. An older man assures them that their, “Young Master,” will return safely, as there is no glaring danger present (“With a ‘G’!”).

Doflamingo is the first to leave the pool area. Katakuri allows him a head start, if only for the fact that he takes much larger steps. A private suite by the poolside, clearly lived-in by Doflamingo, was the private room of choice. Not that it was terribly private, Katakuri knew, given that mother had placed homies in every room of the house.

Katakuri opts to lean against the wall of the room while Doflamingo settles comfortably into an armchair. He sits wide, legs splayed, and rests his arms in his lap.

“So then, what’s on your mind, hm?” Doflamingo asks.

“The nature of this agreement,” Katakuri states plainly. “I have heard rumors circulating that you had at one time considered a different Emperor to forge an alliance. What was it that changed your decision?”

“Fufufu. You mean Kaido, yes?” Doflamingo replies. “Hm...I’ll be frank. _Our_ union,” he gestures between himself and Katakuri, “is more likely to be a stronger bond, no? Little else is more binding than that of family ties. The personal affairs of yours, the personal affairs of mine...they become one in the same.”

Doflamingo makes some vague waving gesture with his hand as he considers his words.

“If Kaido decided tomorrow that I was of no use to him, it would be quite simple to eliminate me. But ah! Here I’m a bit more special than a simple underling, wouldn’t you say? Fufu.”

The expansive and growing list of mother’s ex-husbands should have been a testament to the worth of non-blood family. Playing that card was a gamble at best and a death sentence at worst. For now, mother saw him as toys she was going to play with until the newness wore off.

(Perhaps then he’d be robbed of his lifespan in one of mother’s rampages. That would be funny.)

“You and your brother, Rocinante,” Katakuri continues, ignoring Doflamingo’s statement. “The two of you are all that remains of the Donquixote name outside of those inside the sphere of Mariejois?” A pause. He catches Doflamingo’s smile widening dangerously. “A substantial loss, if so, to send away your only flesh and blood.”

“You speak of this as though it’s a death sentence,” Doflamingo responds. “Should I ever feel the need to visit him, all I’d need to do is return to Tottoland.” He casts a knowing look up to Katakuri and rests his chin in his hand. “You’ll care for him in the meanwhile, won’t you?”

Katakuri watches him pointedly.

“Maintaining a civil union will not be difficult for either of us,” he says.

Doflamingo is pensive a moment, then leans forward. “Ah.” He clicks his tongue. “Between you and I...don’t feel the need to hold back with him. Rocinante is a troubled sort,” he explains. “Requires a firm hand and strict discipline, or else he’ll be led astray. You understand what I mean, don’t you?”

The barely healed bullet wounds on Rocinante’s collar appear in Katakuri’s mind. A firm hand. Strict discipline. A punishment for insubordination, perhaps? It was not beyond mother to resort to drastic measures in the face of mutiny, or even in the face of insolence in general. Those who lied seldom went unpunished. Doflamingo was no different, and perhaps that was why he got along so well with her.

“...Yes,” he answers. “I do.”

“Good, good. Excellent,” Doflamingo says, his demeanor becoming rather friendly once more. “Was there anything else on your mind?”

“That will be all for today,” Katakuri says. He turns toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me.”

Doflamingo waves him off, clearly comfortable with their conversation. Katakuri, however, left it with more questions than answers. Something was deliberately being left unsaid. What sort of trouble was this man saddling his family with by betrothing his aimless brother? And which of them was to be trusted?


	7. Chapter 7

There’s a wedding rehearsal. Actually, three. All in the same day. Because, to nobody’s surprise, both the Donquixotes and the Charlotte Family are an uncoordinated, graceless stampede.

Katakuri is forced to skip merienda to stand in the baking sun with a full tuxedo on while the wedding coordinators nitpick at everyone’s stance on the altar. At the flower girl, a Donquixote with a bow, how much she’s to toss and when. At the ring-bearer, one of Katakuri’s young brothers, when he tries to stick them up his nose. And at the audience’s seating arrangement. Every last detail had to be perfect.

(He supposes he can’t blame them. Mother might eat them if they don’t perfect it.)

“Hyaaa…This is _ridiculous_ ,” Perospero whines from beside him. He fans himself with the wedding pamphlet. “How much longer are we expected to stand here and sweat through our clothes, hm?”

“As long as it takes,” is Katakuri’s quiet response.

“Well perhaps _you’ve_ got all day to stand around dressed in a monkey suit,” his brother snaps. “I’ve got time-sensitive business to take care, perorin!”

Katakuri pinches his nose. As much as he loved and respected his older brother, Perospero had little patience for things he didn’t choose to do himself. If mother hadn’t asked it of him, Perospero likely wouldn’t have shown up at the wedding at all, except to pacify the screaming children with candy sculptures.

Still, compared to his twin brothers, Perospero was a blessing. He at least knew how to carry himself in formal situations. By sheer dumb luck, Oven and Daifuku were out defending the eastern border from some low ranking pirate crew who’d crossed into their territory. If selected to stand beside him, they’d have been enraged to the point of violence after the first hour.

“Weddings are _such_ a pain, perorin. All this decor is going to be worthless trash in a week’s time anyway,” Perospero complains. “I’ll never marry if I have any say in it.”

Several young siblings burst into angry tears when a banister they’d been hanging from breaks. The wedding planners frenzy to calm them down. Perospero rolls his eyes as the children respond by breaking several chairs.

“Kukuku. Amateurs,” he mutters, stepping down from the altar to comfort them.

Katakuri watches him walk off before turning back to Rocinante. His fiance stands inches from him, slowly but surely becoming very uncomfortable in his own tuxedo (which had been trimmed with a sunflower pattern). He shifts on his feet, tugs his tie, and is slowly getting red in the face from the heat. Being the center of attention had brought out a shyer side to him, and he’d stayed quiet for most of the rehearsal. Yet Katakuri could detect that there was something amiss beyond that.

“Something troubles you?” Katakuri mutters, just loud enough to be heard amidst the scolding of a young sibling taking bites out of a chocolate flower vase.

Rocinante chews his lip. There’s clear tension in the way he stands. But beyond that, Katakuri can’t get a good read on his state of mind.

“Nothing,” Rocinante replies, putting on a small, fake smile. “It’s fine.”

A lie. He was barely even trying to hide it. As Perospero crafts a castle from quick-hardening peppermint candy, Katakuri quickly surveys the area. Everyone else is bored. Those who’d memorized their lines were chatting among themselves. In all likelihood, there was no reason for the two of them to stand around like this, given that they were only the focus for a few quick minutes.

“If you would prefer,” Katakuri begins. “We can take our leave.”

Rocinante is surprised by this. He glances between the planners and Katakuri, wholly unsure of himself.

“...Is that really alright?” he whispers.

Something breaks. Someone shouts. A microphone booms. Several people rearrange their fold-out chairs for the fifth time. The coordinators start bickering with Perospero about the inconvenient location of the castle.

“I have little doubt our presence will truly be missed,” Katakuri says flatly.

“Ahaha. Okay.”

At first Rocinante is hesitant to leave his post. But the moment Katakuri steps away, he follows along like a duckling. Most don’t notice them leave. Those that do don’t care enough to stop them. Once outside the designated wedding zone, Rocinante takes his tie off, places it on his shoulder, and undoes two buttons on his dress shirt.

“Ha...summer here is particularly brutal,” he says. “I’ve spent so much time in the North Blue that I forgot what summer feels like…”

Katakuri isn’t really listening. All that’s on his mind now is the freshly made plate of donuts that should be waiting for him.

After that incredible mess--and with the impending chaos of the future mess--he could really use a sugar fix. Hopefully something with custard. Or perhaps a heavier pastry; thick, rich, and filling cake donuts. He’d requested several standard raised with a specific kind of chocolate ganache glaze as well. And an apple fritter using a foreign recipe to change things up a bit--

“Um…” Rocinante speaks up again, reminding Katakuri that he was still there. “So, your brother--”

“Perospero.”

“Perospero,” Rocinante repeats. “Right. He seems…” He struggles to finish the sentence and opts for a new one. “He certainly gets along with the children.”

“My siblings are easily sated with promise of sweets.”

Rocinante hums in response.

“Sometimes it’s the simple things in life that are worth the most,” he muses. “Not everyone can enjoy them.”

His expression is unreadable. Some mix of fondness and melancholy--the latter of which feeling so out of place within the context. However, thoughts of sweet fried dough melting in his mouth were making Katakuri start to drool, so he ignores it. Donuts...sweet, sweet donuts...

“A valid point to make,” Katakuri replies. “However, there is no need to feel as though you might be lacking--”

\--Ah.

Katakuri stops when he realizes that Rocinante isn’t following him anymore. He looks around his general area. He spots Rocinante briskly walking toward the Donquixote villa, hands shoved into his pockets and his head bowed.

Katakuri blinks. He hadn’t expected him to leave without a word. Yet--he supposes he can’t blame him. It’s far from the rudest thing he’s encountered. That, and with the marriage only days away now, stress was much greater. What little time they had on their own was to be savored. Katakuri barely had any to begin with, after all, and he was likely to trade that small freedom away with the rest of his solitude.

Still. He’d expected Rocinante to follow him off to enjoy a specially prepared merienda. No, he hadn’t planned it, and it would have left the chefs scrambling to assemble a second, separate area for Rocinante. It would have been a poor decision. Sharing pieces of his personal life never went well.

...How strange that the disappointment still persisted.


	8. Chapter 8

The honored guests arrive. Right on schedule.

The bright pink ballroom is quickly packed to the brim with people. Sculptures of hard candy and flowing taffy decorate the walls, ceiling, and tables. A fountain in the center of the room oozes hot fudge. The noise level is high. Katakuri feels the beginning of a headache settle in.

Amidst what seemed to be a smoothly run party, Katakuri was making his rounds like a wolf stalking prey. Crying Charlotte toddlers were pacified. Squabbling adults were silenced. Seating arrangements, timely food deliveries, the ever-present necessity of monitoring what only appeared to be the safe haven of Tottoland.

Rocinante’s absence is, again, sorely felt.

It wasn’t necessary for his fiance to show up to this party. Mother was far more interested in the highly prized publicity of newspaper editors, reporters, and a few sleuths working some of her underworld connections. Doflamingo had taken the star role instead, pleasing and appeasing the guests with quick wit and an adequate knowledge of high society.

Katakuri stood in silence watching his every move like a hawk.

“Donquixote Doflamingo? Can’t say I’ve heard it before,” a reporter says. “Though...it does seem a bit familiar.”

“Fufu. It’s a rather uncommon surname, yes. From an even rarer bloodline,” Doflamingo replied with a smirk. “The world of men doesn’t often encounter those of royal breed.”

Immediately the reporters work into an excited frenzy, each peppering him with questions. “Is the World Government involved,” “Why Big Mom,” “What made you leave the Holy Land,” “Do you intend to start a fashion trend?” Doflamingo relishes the attention like a supermodel, increasingly vague answers flowing from his lips to be soaked up with newspapers. Katakuri huffs.

“Oh, but that’s quite enough about me,” Doflamingo suddenly says, silencing the crowd. “The real main attraction is toward the back, now, isn’t she?”

Mother, who is seated near the (cracked) dessert buffet table homie, doesn’t appear to notice Doflamingo’s acknowledgement. Her face is smeared with ganache, sugar glazes, and pink frosting. Over and over she mutters, “More...more…” as she consumes an entire platter of chocolate eclairs. Doflamingo calmly walks closer to her and holds out his champagne glass. Momentarily, she stops to glance down at him.

“To the health and happiness of Lady LinLin,” he toasts. “You throw marvelous parties, fufufu.”

The other guests follow suit, raising their glasses and murmuring out their agreement in a low chorus of cheers. Mother grins widely, making the homies around her start to sing a whimsical song about how much more fun parties were with her as the star.

(Katakuri, meanwhile, imagines mother’s fist crushing Doflamingo’s head like an egg.)

“Mamamama!! This one certainly knows where he stands,” she says, tossing another eclair into her gaping maw.

“The reporters are rather interested in what our future as an alliance holds,” Doflamingo says. “I’d thought it best if they heard it from the one who dreamed up the plan to begin with.”

Mother immediately laughs and starts to relay vague details of plans regarding some country to the east. Katakuri narrows his eyes. It’s territory never considered by her prior to Doflamingo’s arrival, territory that Katakuri would argue is largely useless to them. Little more than a land thriving off of food and tourism. Resources to feed and home Tottoland’s existing citizens were far more important to consider.

A premonition--sharp baby teeth sinking into his boot. He furrows his brow. Teeth. Baby teeth?

“Oh! Dellybean!”

A toddler wobbles out of the crowd, gleefully shrieking as he wields someone’s red high heel shoes on each of his horns. The colorful artist woman--Jora?--is hot on his heels, but is blocked by a parade of staff plowing through the swinging kitchen doors. The child runs right up to Katakuri’s feet. He doesn’t look up, only at his leather boots. Perhaps he thinks Katakuri is merely another part of the decor.

He lunges at the toe of Katakuri’s right boot. Katakuri side-steps. He stomps his tiny feet, puffs up his cheeks and leaps toward the boot--

Ah. Teeth.

“Dellinger! Stop that right now!” Jora exclaims as the boy gnaws on the leather with bizarrely sharp teeth. It’s too thick for him to penetrate. Katakuri merely watches boredly as he chews away like a dog and his...parent? Tries to yank him free. “I am so--ah--I apologize for his behavior, zamasu. He’s normally a very good child, I assure you--”

“It is fine,” Katakuri says. “I have had many younger siblings.”

Dellinger’s tiny teeth scar the outside of the boot as Jora finally rips him off. He lips his teeth, smacks his lips, then grins up at her.

“Kyaa! These shoes taste really good!” he shouts. “Nice and chewy!”

“Haa...Why don’t we find something chewy at the buffet table instead, zamasu…?”

She retreats back into the crowd. Katakuri watches her go until she’s disappeared among the taller party-goers. The other Doflamingo Pirates present were minding themselves, either gorging their faces or making small talk. So far nothing had gone awry.

“Hey, Katakuri.” He turns to his left. Smoothie is standing beside him, a bag over her right shoulder. “Status?”

“Everything is in order,” he states. “They are behaving themselves.” He raises his eyebrows. “Exactly...where is it you went?”

“Shopping.”

She hefts the bag off her shoulder and plops it on the ground with a resounding  _ thunk _ which spooks multiple people around them. Something inside the bag groans. She pulls the drawstring open. Inside are a large multicolored piece of bismuth, a dazed leopard, and an antique polished mahogany chair.

“Mama wanted some interesting refreshments. I picked out some of my favorites,” she explains, sealing the bag again. “You want me to take over? Cracker’s on his way, too, once he figures out where his bowtie went.”

Hm. Katakuri scans the floor once more. A few of his younger siblings are mingling among civilians and fellow pirates. With Smoothie and Cracker present, it should be fine. In theory. Worst case scenario, he wasn’t leaving the island. He watches a large mirror looming in the corner, far away from the crowds. The moment someone struck he could easily return via Brulee.

He nods to Smoothie and leaves his self-assigned post. Smaller members in attendance quickly make way as the jingle of spurs announces his presence. Their eyes widen and they whisper as he passes by. Good. Hopefully the fright will extinguish any thoughts of insubordination.

Once the ballroom door is shut behind him, he’s alone in the cool night air. Not a soul in sight, save for a few homie trees who were quietly singing a song. He inhales, then exhales quietly. The flocks of ravenous news crews, celebrities, and others that his mother invited to these ceremonies always left him emotionally drained. Not that he’d ever admit to that kind of weakness.

He cannot head home. Flour Island is too far, if he was needed there was no possible way to return in time to nip adversary in the bud. He has a designated room in the chateau to stay in for temporary situations like these. Perhaps he could visit with Brulee...

Something in the distance catches his eye. 

The Donquixote villa is dark. He squints. Not all of Doflamingo’s crew attended this gathering. He’d kept at least half behind, to look after Rocinante presumably. It was far too unlikely that everyone in the villa had gone off to sleep this early in the evening. Especially given that the younger members of the crew had gone to the party.

“Ma~ster Kat~ta~kuri~!” a floral bush says in a sing-song voice, scuttling up to him like a crab. “Something troubles you~ on this lovely night~?”

“Have the scouts detected any strange behavior from the Donquixotes?” he asks.

“Mm~mm…” it shakes its leaves as it thinks, then adopts a more normal tone of voice. “Now that you mention it, a few flowers by the sea said something funny, mm~hm. Everyone there seems to be playing a game.”

“Oh?”

“Game, game~mm!!” the bush dances in place. “Hide and seek, hide and seek~ Wherever did he go, oh-ho! Cannot hide from Mama, oh-no!”

The surrounding foliage begins to sway and sing along with the bush’s song. Which Katakuri had absolutely no time for. He ignored the homies dancing at his feet and began to walk toward the villa. Maybe Rocinante could provide some clarity.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man...I can't believe the response I've gotten to this fic! Thank you all so, so much for commenting! Usually I don't do weekly updates for fics because it wears me out...but honestly? Honestly I haven't lost steam here yet. It's hard not to keep working at it when I've been spoken to so much regarding it, ahaha.

Rocinante’s room is the furthest from the other Donquixote crew, all the way at the end of the villa in a small pagoda-style suite. Compared to the rest of the property it’d been barely touched. Save for some slices and stabs to the exterior which appeared to have been made by knives. Katakuri feels his stomach churn. The suite is dark, the blinds are drawn. In all likelihood, Rocinante was probably fast asleep.

He almost turns around with that thought. Until he notices the front door is ajar and a jolt of shock goes through him. Hesitantly, he creeps inside. It’s empty, with the exception of some upturned furniture. It appeared as though someone had dug through the drawers, frantically searching for something. Or someone.

The homie’s voices chant in his ear.  _ Hide and seek...hide and seek... _

“I  _ told _ you we should’ve cuffed him.”

Katakuri pauses upon hearing the voice of Doflamingo’s crewman. Just outside the door, Doflamingo and one of his right hand men were standing, the former of which with a scowl on his face.

“I didn’t think it’d be necessary,” Doflamingo mutters. “He can’t have gotten far. Not with the injuries he has.”

Injuries?

“Should’ve shot him back on Minion,” another crewman, Gladius, grumbles. “Right between the eyes. We’ve got plenty of other, better Donquixote men on this crew. Can’t we give Big Mom someone else?”

“No,” Doflamingo says. “She wants the Celestial bloodline. We’re worthless to her otherwise.” He looks among his men. “We need him  _ alive _ .”

Katakuri remains perfectly still as the men hurry off in different directions, each with a weapon at the ready. Doflamingo remains there, arms folded, a deep, resentful scowl on his face. There’s no possible way for Doflamingo to have gotten to the villa without Katakuri noticing. How had he returned so quickly? 

Doflamingo, luckily, doesn’t notice his presence. He withdraws a transponder snail from his pocket.

“Buffalo,” he says to it. “Any sign of him?”

“ _ Nothing yet, Young Master! _ ” a younger voice calls above what sounds like wind. “ _ The tree line’s too thick to see through! Should I cut through it? _ ”

“No. Don’t stray too far on your own,” Doflamingo says. “Rendezvous with Pica. Keep me posted.”

Rather than alert the Donquixotes of his presence, Katakuri opts to shift to mochi and exit out of an open window. He knew the island better than most. The Seducing Woods weren’t a place strangers would often escape from intact, whether from the animals, homies, or the sheer complexities of its maze. Someone like Rocinante would likely end up dead if he weren’t careful. Not every resident of the island knew who he was.

He’s quick to slip away, slinking through the darkness, muffling his footsteps with gelatinous mochi. Had his fiance decided to go for an ill-fated walk under the cover of night? Such a stupid accident to resolve this close to the wedding date...

“Lord Katakuri!” a rosebush shrieks as he enters the Seducing Woods. “Oh, it’s dreadful! Simply dreadful!”

Katakuri regards it without a word. It skitters up to him with several fearful sunflowers in tow. 

“There’s a ghost in the woods!” the flowers squeak. “It’s big and it’s hairy, you can’t hear it coming, and it’s sooo scary!”

As useful as the homies could be, their wording wasn’t always choice. They were simple creatures. Whether they were describing a bear, Mink, or very peculiar man was unclear. Regardless, intruders were nothing to take lightly. A quick patrol would do no harm.

Katakuri slips into the woods, rushing through at a breakneck pace. He takes note of familiarity; trees, walking paths, regular patrolling animals. Daytime homies wake from their slumber as he passes them by. He ignored the confused whispers around him. Their anxiety could be eased later.

A blur to his right makes him pause. Something dark is moving in the shadows. A premonition--A strange, tall figure dashes from behind a tree. 

When they move, Katakuri runs after them. In the dark, it’s hard to tell who the person is. But he can tell it’s neither a homie, animal, nor one of his siblings. And they’re dressed unlike any of their usual guards. That, and this person hasn’t made a sound. Not footsteps, leaves rustling, or any other movement. They cannot make heads or tails of their surroundings either, as they’re clearly not headed for one of the proper exits. Completely peculiar.

Then, a chance sliver of moonlight illuminates the stranger. A red hat with heart tassels. A gaudy yellow sweater. Katakuri’s eyes widen. It’s Rocinante. 

He’s disguised among the dark foliage via a thick, feathery black coat that gives him an almost animalistic appearance from afar. So, this was the hairy ghost beast. What troubles Katakuri above all is that it’s Rocinante with this unimaginable stealth. Was it a Devil Fruit ability? Something natural to his bloodline? Whatever the case, mother hadn’t been informed and it was an unwelcome surprise.

Katakuri sticks to the shadows some distance away, following him carefully. Where was he headed? There wasn’t a single place on Whole Cake island he could run to, nobody who would hide him.

Eventually they come upon a barren cliffside, void of homies and guards. It’s a natural wall, the bluff rising so high above the water it would be foolish to scale or leap from. Rocinante stops running, drops to his knees, and places a hand to his chest. Sound returns with him gasping for air in desperate heaves. He takes a moment to scan his surroundings, body shaking with exhaustion.  Katakuri snakes through the trees as fluid mochi, inching closer and closer to Rocinante. 

Just as Rocinante seems to have noticed him--he freezes, keeping perfectly still. Rocinante squints in his direction for a long moment before looking away. He snaps his fingers.

“ _ Silent _ ,” he says breathlessly.

Sounds disappear once more. Or, the sounds around them have muted. Katakuri owns it up to a Devil Fruit. Though for now the intricacies of the power are still a bit of a mystery. It seems as though Katakuri has made it inside the perimeter of the ability, however.

After a few shaky breaths, Rocinante pulls out a transponder snail from within his coat and lifts the receiver. A deep voice Katakuri doesn’t recognize answers.

“ _ Rice _ \--”

“Cakes,” Rocinante whispers. “It’s me.”

“ _ Rocinante?! _ ” The voice on the other end is shocked. “ _ I’d thought--! _ ”

“I would have spoken to you sooner,” Rocinante continues. “But things have gotten complicated.” Rocinante chews on his lip. “...I blew my cover.”

The speaker is dead silent, and the air becomes tense. By the look on Rocinante’s face, the consequences of his failure must have been catastrophic. A rustling sound crackles through the receiver.

“ _...I see _ ,” they say. “ _ That would explain why Doflamingo managed to escape Tsuru’s fleet. _ ”

Katakuri’s eyes widen. Rocinante bows his head further, almost as though he’s wounded.

“I’m sorry,” Rocinante says. “I accept full responsibility for my incompetence.”

A brief, pensive pause. Then, the other speaker replies, “ _ That you managed to escape alive at all is reason to be glad. _ ” It’s soft, familial in nature. “ _ There were reports from Minion Island of bodies--that the Donquixotes had gone after one of their own. I’ve been worried sick that he’d done you in. _ ”

“Aha...he tried,” Rocinante says, a grimace forming. “He had other ideas…”

“ _ Other--? What do you mean? Where are you now? _ ” 

Pause. 

“... _ You did escape him, did you not? _ ”

Rocinante squeezes his eyes shut. He lifts the speaker closer, then rests his arm on his leg. The cheerful, carefree facade Katakuri has seen for several weeks now is long gone. The man looks seconds from tears.

“Have you seen the papers?” Rocinante finally says. “About the wedding?”

“ _ The Charlotte and Donquixote Family alliance? There’s not a single seaman who isn’t whispering about it. It’s going to make our plans far more difficult _ ,” they say. Then, they inhale sharply. “ _ \--Oh, Rocinante, you’re not staying to interrupt that, are you?! Or are you still on about that boy-- _ ”

“He has a name, you know,” Rocinante responds dryly. Then, he sighs, and pinches his nose. “I...I need your help, Sengoku.”

Sengoku. Katakuri’s expression grows dark. So, this was the secret Doflamingo had been hiding, and he’d been right to tread carefully around Rocinante. Quietly, he liquifies his arm to a thick mochi paste. His trident begins to leak out from it. There was no place for traitors among their ranks.

“ _ If you need permission to leave your post, it’s granted _ ,” Sengoku says. “ _ We can meet you on the edge of Tottoland territory-- _ ”

“No, no--it’s--I--” Rocinante stammers. “I’m--the one. I’m the one Doflamingo offered to Big Mom. If you can get me out of here, the alliance will be considered void. I can’t get out on my own.” His throat was dry. “ _ Please _ .”

Katakuri poises in wait to strike. The line hums quietly.

“ _ You know I can’t do that _ .” Rocinante lifts his head up. His eyes are red. “ _ That’s a quarrel we’re not prepared to deal with. It’s far too much of a risk. And, should it fail, I can’t justify the loss of men for one singular commander. _ ”

He can see Rocinante quivering in the darkness, face covered by the tassels of his hat. The weak pleading seems to have fallen on deaf ears. Rocinante’s shoulders slump. After collecting himself, he raises the speaker to his mouth once more.

“Understood,” he says. “It was a pleasure serving under you, sir.”

“ _ Roci--! _ ”

Sengoku tries to respond, but Rocinante ends the call. Katakuri watches him a moment more, trying to decipher where he plans to go from here. Rocinante merely kneals there on the ground, doing nothing more than stare at the transponder snail as it starts ringing again. Then, he shakily rises to his feet.

“Well?”

At first, Katakuri assumes Rocinante is speaking to himself, or another, unseen person. However, Rocinante’s red gaze turns toward the spot where Katakuri had been lying in wait. Katakuri tenses.

“Are you going to kill me?” Rocinante asks him. 

He makes no move to flee or even to fall into a battle position. No, he merely stands there, a defeated man with nothing left. Katakuri emerges from the treeline still wielding his trident. Rocinante’s gazes up at him as he approaches. There’s still no fear, merely hopeless acceptance. As though he was finally processing the grim reality of his situation. A filthy Marine dog sent in like a pig for slaughter.

“It is a possibility,” Katakuri answers.

Rocinante laughs pathetically. “What information I do have isn’t much good to you,” he says. “Four years out of date. And any codes I know Sengoku is going to change.” He stares out at the sea. “Might as well dispose of me now, save yourself the trouble.”

“Mother has found this union favorable to her,” Katakuri states. “And you might yet be of use.”

He sees Rocinante quiver, whether in fear or anticipation he’s unsure. Rocinante clenches his fists.

“You don’t want this,” he says. “I  _ know _ you don’t want this. I’m unarmed, vulnerable. Why not stop it while you have the chance?”

“It is not my decision to make.”

“Bullshit it’s not.”

Katakuri sighs, ignoring Rocinante’s harsh tone. To make a rash choice and eliminate one of the only two accessible Donquixotes would likely cause more harm than good. Mother had her sights set. Spy or not, if he took away what she wanted then the punishment would fall upon his shoulders. Whatever she chose it to be, he knew it would be severe. Even Doflamingo understood that much.

“We will be going back to Cake Town,” Katakuri says. “Your compliance is appreciated.”

“And if I choose not to?”

He looks down to Rocinante, eyes cold. Rocinante’s response was a dead-eyed, empty stare. No longer was this a kindred spirit. Only another liability to be saddled with. A problem to deal with later, when mother wasn’t focused on the joys of confectionery.

“Do not believe you have such luxuries,  _ commander _ .”

Katakuri waits. Rocinante turns toward the sea, watching the waves splash against the cliff side. There’s a lingering dread in the back of Katakuri’s mind that he’ll make a jump for it. He should prevent that before it’s something Katakuri can’t fix. But no premonitions form. Soon, Rocinante shuffles toward him, eyes on the ground. They walk alongside one another, side-by-side, in silence.

At some point, Rocinante mutters, “Guess Doffy really was right about you, huh.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys!! i know i usually post on mondays, but unfortunately i've had to send my computer in for repairs, so i can't do it then. i'm posting this rn from a different computer which...........has a questionable internet connection. idk when my usual computer will be back, but i actually have to announce a short hiatus from posting!!
> 
> i'll still be writing for this and my other fics, but google docs isn't easy to access here or on my phone so i don't think it'll be very easy to update for a while. sorry for the inconvenience!!

The party goes on. The Donquixotes settle down and return to mingle with the crowds, content with the knowledge that Katakuri is looking after Rocinante. His excuse was that they’d gone out for a walk together. Doflamingo was suspicious, but clearly wasn’t prepared to challenge Katakuri on it. He’d let Katakuri take his brother without a fight.

If only it had been so simple.

In truth, the usually all-knowing Katakuri doesn’t have a clue what he should do in this situation. However, he does know that the mirror world is the only place where mother and the entire fleet of homies, siblings, and guards cannot hear them talk.

“You _can’t_ be serious,” Brulee says exasperatedly after Katakuri breaks the news to her.

Katakuri watches her pace from his seat at a plain white mochi table he generated for the three of them. He’d make Rocinante sit on the floor, but then neither he nor Brulee would be able to see him clearly. His fiance is slumped over, pale and solemn, blankly staring at the pink floor tiles at his feet. His hands have been cuffed with hardened mochi. Not that he’s shown any signs of resistance.

“ _Ugh_. What a filthy mess this makes. We can’t call off the wedding, not this far into it. Mama would rampage.” Brulee pinches her nose. “Stupid half-baked rookie pirates thought they could dupe an Emperor, eh…”

“I believe they were trading damaged goods for riches,” Katakuri says. “Perhaps it was a fact intended to be left unsaid.”

“Are Smoothie and Cracker aware?”

“No. Only the two of us,” Katakuri replies. “For now, it would be best to keep the knowledge quiet.”

Brulee huffs. “Fair point. It only becomes more troublesome when the lot of them want to have a say.”

She pauses, presumably to collect her thoughts, then storms over to the table. Her eyes are narrowed fiercely as she glowers at Rocinante. Katakuri can feel the years of loathsome treachery from previous arrangements, deals, and alliances emanating from her. Never trust any who aren’t blood. That was the unspoken Charlotte Family rule. Never had they once been wrong to follow it. How could they trust someone who so readily betrayed their own?

“So then,” Brulee says, slamming her hands down onto the table. “If you aren’t a Donquixote, exactly who _are_ you? Hmmm?”

She reaches out a bony hand and holds Rocinante’s face between three fingers. Her nails pressed into his cheeks, making him wince. He’s lifted off the table with little effort as she scrutinizes him.

“You haven’t a shred of resemblance to any Marine commanders on our radar,” she mutters. “What are you, a cadet?”

“You already know who I am,” Rocinante says slowly. “I’m Doffy’s one and only brother by blood. And the only remaining member of our family.” He pauses, swallows, then continues, “He’s...not fond of other members of our bloodline. He wouldn’t lie about it.”

“But he’s fool enough to allow a government dog into his ranks?”

Rocinante closes his eyes. “...He didn’t know. Not until recently.”

Brulee squints at him. Then, he’s unceremoniously dropped back into his seat, which squishes and reforms as he finds his bearings.

“A spy, then. Of course. Why would the Marines allow anyone photos or names of their spies?”

Brulee finally settles down in her designated chair, propping her head up on her hand.

“I don’t know if it’s stupid or brilliant to send in his own damn brother to leak information,” she mutters. “From one spy to another--I’m curious, Either you’re a terrible spy or have terribly misfortune.” Brulee clicks her tongue. “And if what Kata has said about your ability is as useful as it sounds, I’m assuming the latter. What’d you do, then? Try to assassinate him?”

Despite his grim situation, Rocinante smiles. He turns to Brulee with a knowing look, as though whatever it was he did brought him peace of mind.

“I kidnapped one of Doffy’s recruits,” he says. “And made him realize what it was like to live again.” He cast his eyes downward. “...Or, well, hopefully I did.”

“Mutiny,” Brulee concludes. “Boring and typical.”

Rocinante stays silent.

“Well, brother. What shall we do with him, then?” Brulee asks. “Convenient disappearance? Drowning? Slow rot in the dungeon? Full extermination of the Donquixote Pirates for treachery? Mama might enjoy taking their Devil Fruits...”

Katakuri glares down at Rocinante. Certainly, it would be useful to mine them for Devil Fruits. There were so many siblings that could benefit from that. Mother did want his bloodline to mingle with theirs, however. Perhaps they could preserve some DNA samples? Ah, what a shame they hadn’t gotten their hands on Germa technology. There had yet to be an heir old enough to represent the kingdom.

The irony of shackling him with a set of slave cuffs was tempting also.

“I will decide on the proper course of action,” Katakuri says. “Mother will be informed after she has thoroughly enjoyed herself in the celebration. I am certain she, too, would like a say in punishment.”

(Too lenient. Far too lenient. Sensible though it may be, they should be executing him here and now. Foreign spies were never to be tolerated.)

“I’ll keep my lips sealed until then,” Brulee promises. “Should I send word for our peripheral guard to double the defenses on the edges of Tottoland? Just in case?”

“It is unlikely that the government will risk an attack for a single Marine spy,” he responds. “Yet...I see no harm in it, should anyone try to slip bast our border guard.”

Brulee rises from her seat. But, just before she takes her leave, she smirks at Katakuri.

“I suppose it’s lucky you were chosen,” Brulee says quietly. “Who better than our loyalest man to deal with a renegade Marine?”

Then she leaves for the mirror maze, making a beeline for whichever mirror it was that she communicated to Oven and Daifuku through. Katakuri was left to stew in his thoughts alone with their prisoner.

It’s a compliment. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what she means by it. He is, truly, the strongest among them, and the one most efficient in dealing with these sorts of issues. She trusts him to handle things accordingly. Still-- _still_ . How tantalizing the idea was if someone else-- _anyone_ else--had been saddled with this man instead. Some other sibling--sister or brother, another commander. Either Smoothie or Cracker could handle him fine. In fact, they might have made a decision to prevent the issue from arising at all.

He closes his eyes.

No. No, he’s being selfish. How dare he wish his burdens thrust upon another of his family.

This was his role, and his alone. The cost of perfect surveillance...it was necessary, was it not? The safety of his family needed to be prioritized. Mother would be proud that he was sacrificing so much to protect her, and all of them.

...Wouldn’t she?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, it's been a while. Sup guys!!
> 
> Apologies for the radio silence. TL;DR I've had a lot of stuff to deal with (computer issues, illness, wandering interests, and an overwhelming amount of daily tasks) and haven't been able to really devote time to writing. I don't think the schedule will return to the former weekly postings since I'm all out of buffer. But I'll do what I can!

The day has finally arrived.

Katakuri, dressed up to impress, finds himself staring blankly back at his reflection in the mirror as Brulee preens his clothes, scarf, hair, hands, everything. She’s saying something to him but he’s so lost in his thought it goes in one ear and out the other. A single, horrible realization plagues his mind.

He has to kiss Rocinante.

Excuses had been exhausted. Height difference was no issue, a ramp would be constructed at the altar. Scarf or no scarf, even with the prying eyes of the public off of him, there was still this ex-Marine who’ll be given one of his most carefully guarded secrets--the most powerful piece of blackmail he could possibly have.

Revealing who Rocinante was now would be far too dangerous. A rampage from mother mid-wedding would leave complete devastation not only among Tottoland’s population, but also in the global media she had so painstakingly tried to maintain relations with. And even if he was a gambler, the possibility was that mother would not care about his feelings on the matter. It meant nothing to her.

“You’re brooding again, brother.”

Katakuri blinks back to reality. Brulee isn’t even looking, too distracted by tape-rolling shed scarf fibers from Katakuri’s shoulders.

“Am I not allowed to?” he replies.

“Be miserable all you like,” she says. He hears her tear a filled sheet of tape off and toss it. “But I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that anything less than enthusiastic in front of Mama will leave her bloomers in a knot.”

She’s right. He knows that very well. He’ll put on the same stoic resolve as always and go about this awful mess the same as any other.

Once Brulee was satisfied that Katakuri looked significantly less like he owned a large white persian cat, she backs off. Even with her preening, he doesn’t feel much nicer. His stomach is still in knots, bubbling with anxiety. He could really use a merienda right now. Which lasted for the remainder of his life, perhaps. 

Brulee’s heels--wait, she’s wearing  _ heels _ ?--click on the floor tiles. He turns to look at her. She, too, is nicely dressed; a simple yet elegant blue dress, earrings, and her hair styled. All prettied up for the party she was never invited to. It wasn’t suitable attire for a spy, not if she wanted to effectively fight anyone. She fiddles with a silver bracelet fastened around her wrist, muttering something to herself. When she catches Katakuri staring, she makes a face.

“What?” she says. “Can’t I look different once in a while?”

“I’ve never seen you wear heels before.”

Brulee glances down to her shoes. Her ankles wobble, clearly unused to the feeling. She huffs and lifts a foot. Both shoes appear to end in a sharp spike.

“They were a gift,” she remarks. “Thought I should wear them at least  _ once _ . And besides...” She chuckles. “I’ve always wanted to stomp a man to death.”

She walks across the room to a body-length mirror in a gilded frame. Before she steps into it, she gives Katakuri one last glance, smiles, and gives him a thumbs up. Katakuri grins under his scarf. He pats the pocket of his suit where he’d placed a tiny pocket mirror. She copies the motion. Then, she disappears, and he’s left to his own devices.

In the silence of this private space, he sags into a chair, massaging his forehead with his thumb. He’s not ready for this. He’s wholeheartedly  _ not _ ready for this. No longer could he cling to that security blanket persona that he was flawless. He drags his tongue over the surface of his fangs. He awkwardly tries to rearrange the position of his jaw--can he hide his teeth behind his lips, perhaps? The pointed edges bump against his upper lip and gums. He flinches. Nope.

He side-eyes his reflection once more. The ugly, jagged scars from his poor attempt to make his mouth normal-sized stuck out like a sore thumb. Raucous laughter from days long passed fill his ears. 

God, he’s hideous.

A premonition: someone knocks at the door. It’s Rocinante. He quickly covers his mouth. Seconds later, he hears said knock. It was so quiet that, had he not been so attentive, he might have missed it otherwise.

“Enter,” he says, before the person can speak up.

The doorknob turns. Rocinante shyly pokes his head in. His hair has been neatly combed and styled, his face tastefully treated with makeup to hide any visible bruising. Someone’s fitted him in a simple white suit with a sunflower brooch. Yet no amount of glitz and glitter hides the fact that his eyes are dull and his smile is sad.

“...Hello,” Rocinante greets him, waving meekly. Katakuri says nothing. “I...ahaha...I needed to escape the wedding attendants for a bit. Is it okay if I…?”

Katakuri shrugs. Rocinante hesitates in the doorway, then enters the room, closing the large door behind him. He gazes at the room’s decor--nothing in particular seems to catch his eye. If he was expecting to find something of interest, he’d be disappointed. Katakuri hadn’t brought any personal effects with him.

“...I’m sorry.”

Katakuri perks up. He catches sight of Rocinante in the mirror, sitting on the bed behind him. His shoulders are slumped, eyes on his shoes, with his body seeming smaller than it was.

“For getting you into all this, I mean,” Rocinante elaborates. “Criminal or not, you don’t deserve it.”

“You do not seem to understand. It matters not what is and is not deserved,” Katakuri replies. “I will perform my duty as a Charlotte son.”

“Still.”

Hard to tell if it’s pity, sympathy, or some thinly-veiled complaint from Rocinante. Katakuri watches him warily. What little comfort they’d taken in each other’s company was long gone, replaced with the same tense, ionized air that would facilitate a thunderstorm. Rocinante keeps his distance, that sorrowful smile still on his face. He brushes a stray bit of hair away before putting on a friendly mask.

“Um--I saw the staircase Perospero constructed,” he says. “I’m assuming that’s for me?”

“Presumably,” he mutters, feeling his stomach drop. So the ramp had already been constructed. “Our difference in height required a proper solution, after all.”

Everything is in place, then. They sit in a pregnant silence, the wall clock ticking away. Katakuri’s eyes dart to it. It wouldn’t be long until they were supposed to be at their designated locations. Any moment now, a decorated, spirited little homie would burst through the door announcing all-too cheerfully that the wedding had begun.  The waiting was the hardest part. The longer he sat here stewing in it, the harder it was to retain his nonchalance.

With a sharp inhale, Katakuri rises to his feet. Surely arriving a bit early would do no harm. The staff likely needed assistance anyway, given the rambunctious nature of his younger siblings. Mother wouldn’t be watching them, that was certain.

“Well then,  _ commander _ ,” Katakuri says pointedly, noting how Rocinante winces at the title. “I will be taking my leave.”

“...It’s just Rocinante now,” he replies softly. “Can’t be a commander when you’re legally deceased, no?” Katakuri doesn’t respond. Rocinante climbs off of the bedspread, smooths the wrinkles from his clothes, and cautiously approaches Katakuri. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

Katakuri opens the door enough so that Rocinante can slip out. He’s so comically small compared to the massive door. But, rather than leave immediately, Rocinante hesitates. Again, his eyes are on Katakuri, this time his expression being unreadable. He manages something of a friendly smile.

“See you at the altar, then,” he says, and then he disappears down the hall to the right, his white suit melting into a mass of black-tied waitstaff.


	12. Chapter 12

The long walk to the altar, one he’d rehearsed way too many times, felt as though he was being led to his execution. 

The wedding around him is mostly a blur. The low mumble of the crowd, the live music filling the air, mother’s impatient drooling at the sight of the specially prepared wedding cake.  Whatever words the pastor is reciting he doesn’t even bother to listen to. No, his attention is only on Rocinante. Rocinante, who’s busy playing the role of the spouse. Who seems as though, if only for a moment, actually wants this.

(He was a far superior actor, clearly.)

Katakuri likes to think his guise will fool those watching him. The scarf is doing most the work, however.

(It’s getting too hot. So hot.)

Vows were recited with stiff formality. At least on Katakuri’s part.

(Please, just let this be done with.)

The music, cheering, and words from the mouth of the preacher are muted by the throbbing of his heart in his ears. His mouth is dry, his hands are going clammy. Rocinante, though flustered by the heat and length of the ceremony, is so nonchalant that Katakuri can’t help but  _ hate _ it.

How dare he take this in his stride. How  _ dare _ this filthy--rotten--blackmailing scoundrel of a marine--!

“You may kiss the groom.”

Blankness. Katakuri actually hesitates at the altar--frozen with terror he dares not show--his fist tightly curled around his scarf. He tries to muster up the haki to see into the future and sees nothing. So much  _ nothing _ .

_ Don’t keep them waiting. Don’t. If mother lashes out, it’ll be on your head if anyone is hurt. _ He reminds himself as he steps forward to the staircase elevating Rocinante to his height. Maybe...if he can time this just right...then the crowd surrounding them won’t be able to get a good enough look at his face…

He tugs his scarf to the right and down, enough so to just barely conceal his face. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him--

Rocinante locks eyes with him. They dart to his mouth, his mangled scars, his ugly fangs-- **_please_ ** _ don’t look at it _ \--then back up to eye level. Katakuri feels the color drain from his face. His ears ring painfully as he waits for Rocinante to burst out laughing, or tear his scarf off, or--

His scarf stays put. Rocinante’s hands cradle his cheeks as he leans in for a brief, chaste kiss on the lips. Strange due to their size difference, and yet...not nearly so strange.

Before Katakuri can even comprehend what’s happened, Rocinante pulls back. He yanks the scarf right up to his nose and clings to the pathetic little hope that no one can see his embarrassment. The crowd applauds. Camera shutters snap. Mother shouts about the cake. He catches Perospero glide past him and announce something or other. He still can’t manage to focus on anything other than the blood pumping in his ears.

_ He saw it.  _

_ He  _ **_saw_ ** _ me. _

He glowers at Rocinante beside him, though his fian--his husband’s attention is directed toward the crowd instead. What he wouldn’t give to be able to read Rocinante’s carefully constructed facade. Surely that friendly guise was deceiving. Surely he was already concocting some ridiculous scheme to blackmail Katakuri in exchange for his freedom. Already Katakuri is thinking of possible routes out of this without killing him.

In a traditional wedding he and Rocinante would have been the spotlight. Yet mother’s boisterous personality and ravenous appetite immediately took center stage. Not that Katakuri minded. That gave him a moment to relax.

The wedding mob stampedes off toward the dining area like a herd of wild cattle. Katakuri wants nothing more than to lose Rocinante in the crowd and find a half-decent table to steel himself over again at. But, appearances counted for everything. He stood still as Rocinante descended the ramp.

“Hm,” Rocinante hums as he watches his new mother-in-law devour their wedding cake by the fistful. “In most cases I believe it’s the married couple that get the first pieces of cake...but to be perfectly honest, I think I’ll pass.”

Katakuri shrugs. It’s likely that none of the guests will be receiving cake either. The cake was meant to appease the true guest of honor, who was layering herself in frosting and fondant.

“If you wish to indulge, I can have Streussen prepare a personal cake,” Katakuri says stiffly.

“Maybe. Right now a fresh, crisp  _ salad _ sounds far more appetizing…”

Katakuri catches Rocinante twisting the new ring around his finger. It’s gaudy; nothing but red ruby heart-shaped jewels lavishly decorating a gold and silver band. Katakuri’s own is purple, silver, and gold; more plain, still an eyesore. Neither of them had much of a role in the design process beyond the fitting process.  (Both had quietly agreed to wear the simple gold engagement rings instead.)

A table large enough to seat Katakuri comfortably was off to the side, isolated, on what was probably a pedestal meant for the wedding attendees to view them on. Not that anyone was eyeing them expectantly. Between Katakuri’s refusal to eat in front of guests and the tense political atmosphere, there wasn’t really much to see.

He settles down, expecting Rocinante to follow suit. However, at the last moment, he hears Doflamingo’s voice. It’s just loud enough to be heard amidst the raucous laughter of the Charlotte brothers as mother knocks the cake carcass to the ground.

“Surely you don’t mind if I borrow your husband for a few minutes?” Doflamingo asks, though it’s less of a question than it is a statement. Rocinante’s fragile facade cracks with a strike of fear--cast toward Katakuri, as if he’d actually help--before he’s pulled by his arm off into the crowd.

Alone. For the moment. 

The uproar masks Katakuri’s sigh as he relaxes into the chair. His clothes are too tight, he’s stinking with sweat, and the smell of sweets is intoxicating. A donut would really help. Possibly. Assuming he didn’t immediately vomit from stress alone.  He stares out at the crowd, watching the red top of Rocinante’s hat bob to and fro. He watches who Doflamingo brings him to. He takes not of each and every face he can put a name to.

( _ He knows.  _

_ He knows, and he’s going to tell.  _

_ He’s going to tell. He’s going to tell he’s going to tell he’s going to te-- _ )

“Kata-koo-ree!”

Katakuri’s attention falls on the empty chair beside him. A pair of brown pigtails pops up over the edge, followed by the tiny hands of his young sister, Pudding. How she’d managed to scale the chair meant for Rocinante was a feat in itself, but here she was climbing right onto the table. Her dress and tiny black shoes were covered in chocolate (or maybe it was dirt?) and her hair was a frizzled mess. 

She walks over to sit down beside Katakuri’s giant empty plate, leaving a trail of small brown footprints in her wake.

“Is something the matter?” he asks.

“Mama’s hoggin’ all the cake,” she grumbles, crossing her stubby arms. “And Baby won’t stop talkin’ about boys ‘n love ‘n stuff.” She flops down onto her back, puffs up her cheeks, and looks up at Katakuri. “Boys are  _ gross _ .”

“I am a boy as well, you know.”

“You don’t count, you’re not gross.” 

She makes some untranslatable gesture of grossness that Katakuri can’t make heads or tails of. Then, she turns her head to watch the crowd in the distance. Again, the younger, teenage Charlotte sisters are swarming Rocinante in overwhelming quantities, his brother Doflamingo charming them with some silent words. Pudding sticks her tongue out at them, grabs a small, unused fork, and begins raking the table with it.

“Mama says _ I’m _ gonna have to marry a boy someday but I don’t wanna ‘cuz they’re all so  _ ugly _ ,” she continues. “Can I have yours when you’re done with him?”

“I believe he is a bit too old for you, Pudding,” Katakuri says.

“Yeah. He’ll die faster,” Pudding says. “And he looks dumb. Like he’s gonna do whatever I say when I say it.”

She shakes her head, pigtails bouncing as she does it. Her third eye slips out as her bangs are swept to the side. Katakuri hears her inhale sharply. She frantically brushes her hair back into position with her tiny fingernails, perfectly straight bangs shielding the eye from view again. Katakuri raises his eyebrows.

“...Why are you hiding your eye, Pudding?” he asks.

Pudding, alarmed, looks up at him with wide eyes, clearly expecting to be reprimanded. When none such thing comes, the fear fades away. She turns away to stare down at the tablecloth and continues raking it halfheartedly.

“Cuz,” she mumbles. “Mama says it’s ugly. Pretty girls aren’t s’posed ta have eyes in their foreheads.”

Katakuri’s eyes soften. His sister sounds so despondent. Her appearance has never troubled him. Mother, too, had chosen Pudding’s father with the intention of inheriting said trait. Like Perospero’s tongue, Brulee’s crooked nose, Smoothie’s long legs, Praline’s tailfin--it’s a trait that made her unique among dozens. Special, even.

There’s little he can do about it, however. Mother’s word is law. If he offers condolences or a pardon to her, she might reveal the eye and face ridicule as she ages. And she doesn’t deserve  _ that _ .

(It’s not normal. Things that aren’t normal are bad. Normal people will only hurt you for it.)

Pudding’s conversation switches from her eyes to the dresses that the Donquixote girls were wearing. Katakuri, meanwhile, still had his eye on Rocinante in the distance. He was smiling, laughing, carefree. Katakuri glowered at him. He rests a hand on the table as Pudding babbles on, stabbing and splintering the wood. She doesn’t notice as he protectively shields her from Rocinante’s line of sight.

He won’t allow Rocinante to pick at the flaws of anyone else.


	13. Chapter 13

The party goes on into the night. Katakuri, too, has left with nightfall for his home on Flour Island. It’s all he can do to maintain what little reserve he has left. Hours upon hours of acting, performing, pretending he was fine, keeping his stoic expression, ignoring his throbbing headache and the heat of the sun glaring down at him and the way his neck was slick with sweat--

God. He was so exhausted.

He doesn’t remember disembarking. He doesn’t remember the walk home. He doesn’t remember responding to the island’s citizens who politely greeted him. Everything felt all-too dreamlike.

Then, he’s home. The door’s unlocked, and he’s standing in the atrium; it’s quiet and dark, save for the lights he’d asked be left on. The house staff had left. It was peaceful. Finally, he was--

No. He wasn’t alone anymore, was he?

He hears the door click behind him. Rocinante slips in, arm awkwardly outstretched to turn the knob, and Katakuri becomes painfully aware of how unsuited he is for this house. How much he does not and should not belong here. It’s  _ his _ private space, designed for  _ him _ . This is so wrong. Katakuri feels his skin crawling.

“...Your suite is in the east wing,” Katakuri says to Rocinante. “Feel free to explore.”

“Ah. Um. Thank you,” is Rocinante’s response that Katakuri doesn’t bother to reply to.

He trudges off to his bedroom--the one room in the entire goddamn house that will stay permanently his--and bolt locks it. For a second, he stands in the darkness of his bedroom, staring off at the far wall.

So. This is the rest of his life now.

The finely tailored suit is torn from his body like wrapping paper. His scarf falls off in a damp heap. Buttoned shirt, dress pants, bowtie, tight-fitting shoes--all of it, he pulls it off not giving a damn whether or not it’s been ripped to pieces.

Freed from containment, he stretches out, listening to his body crack in various places. His shoulders feel stiff, his neck hurts, and god willing he’s not going to wear another shirt for a month. He tries very hard to ignore the glaringly white fangs protruding from his lips that he catches in a mirror’s reflection. He was never meant to be dressed up like some doll. Monsters can’t be hidden under glitter and makeup.

_ Rocinante knows that now, too, doesn’t he? _

He squeezes his eyes shut and runs his fingers through his hair. Images from the wedding flickered back to him; the way Rocinante had looked at him--the fact that he couldn’t read it--what was he thinking, about all this? More importantly, what was he plotting? Was he planning to inform Doflamingo? The Marines? Would Katakuri awaken to find blackmail guiding his hand…?

...And how come, now that they were alone, Rocinante hadn’t asked about his face?

Katakuri goes still, focusing his haki on any sounds he could pick up within his residence. His was a specifically homie-free zone, as per request. Any and all movement would either be some unfortunate intruder, an invited guest...or his new husband. Some rooms away he can hear Rocinante slipping off his shoes, socks padding against the hard floor. Rocinante falling against said floor, Rocinante cursing said floor...

He was headed for the east wing. No curious exploration beyond the occasional stop near what Katakuri knew was a window.

“What are you playing at?” he mutters to himself.

Then, Rocinante disappears behind a door and goes quiet. Katakuri gazes in the general direction of the east wing. So, Rocinante’s found his particular section of the house. Interesting that he wasn’t too keen on exploring what would become his new residence. Perhaps he, too, was seeking solace in the quiet of a private space.

Katakuri sighs and settles down on his bed, eyes glued to the ceiling. A more traditional wedding would involve both partners laying side-by-side, full of marital bliss and prepared to consummate their marriage. He vaguely wonders if any of his siblings had that kind of experience, or would  _ ever _ have it. It’s not as though any had been willing beyond following mother’s orders. That kind of joy wasn’t natural for them.

He closes his eyes and turns on his side.

_ Get over yourself. It’s not the end of the world _ , he tells himself.  _ It’s not _ . He will resume his duties in the morning. He can ignore the man in his house.

He manages to avoid speaking to Rocinante the first day after. 

And the second. And the third. 

Somehow, he makes it through the week without seeing more than a glimpse of him.  Life...resumes. Mother still calls upon him in the dead of night, threats are ever-present, his siblings still have pressing issues that need attending to. It is, from all appearances, the same as it ever was. Somehow, that doesn’t make him feel any better.

After an eighth day, he arrives home a little after three o’clock...in the morning.

It should be normal to be exhausted around this time. To a degree, he is. Yet--at this stage in his life there’s really never a moment where he isn’t tired, be it mental or physical. He sleeps only in a few short moments of tranquility in between mother’s demands, sibling quarrels, and enemy sightings.  It’s not nearly as much as he needs. But he’s used to it. There’s no other choice, really.

The door clicks behind him. He’s careful to lock it and test said lock. However, a faint sound from within the house makes him pause. At this time of night the house is usually silent. It’s only him and Rocinante within the space after all. His husband rarely if ever stays up so late.

Though it’s his own house, Katakuri still proceeds with utmost caution. Security is tight, yet he refuses to let his guard down. As he approaches the living room, the noise slowly grows louder, until he comes up alongside the television. It’s playing an infomercial about different shapes of baking pans.

There isn’t anyone watching it. At least, not anymore. He spots Rocinante slumped under a blanket that’s far too big for him on a couch that may as well be his own private queen-sized bed. The attached kitchen still has a light on overhead, as though Rocinante had intended to return prior to falling asleep. Katakuri almost goes and turns it off without a second thought before he sees the plate of food sitting out on the counter.

They’re cookies. Or that’s what Rocinante’s note says. Most of them resemble charcoal more than anything else.

“Sorry, I’m not much of a baker.”

Katakuri freezes. Rocinante is sitting up, looking at him from the couch, face illuminated by the television. His eyes are droopy, a sleepy smile on his face.

“I hope you don’t mind me using your kitchen,” he says.

“It is as much your kitchen now as it is mine,” Katakuri replies. “Do as you see fit with the space.”

Rocinante yawns, rubs at his eyes, and then gets up from the couch. Katakuri tenses out of instinct when he approaches, coming within mere inches of him, close enough to touch and yet he...doesn’t. He could lash out, attack, resist his captivity--why doesn’t he? He stares at Rocinante, watching his every movement as though he were on the battlefield. His husband walks past him to pick up a charcoal cookie.

Why hasn’t he asked, about the way Katakuri looks? Why he so shamefully masks his face? Rocinante had skillfully held back any laughter at the altar, but...there was no show to put on here.

(Can’t they get this over with? The anticipation was really beginning to fester.)

“You’re a busy man, huh?” Rocinante speaks up. He takes a bite of the cookie, flinches, then regretfully leans over the trash bin to spit it out. “...I haven’t seen you for a few days now.”

“Running a country requires my presence at all times,” he says. “This island, too, has need of me.”

“Oh, that’s right. You run Flour Island, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Ahaha. Is it because your Devil Fruit power? Or were you assigned the position before that?”

They make casual conversation. Banter, even. Simple questions, like where Katakuri liked to spend his time, which siblings lived nearby. What kinds of things Flour Island produced, the etymology of the island itself, whether or not gardening to the extent of Whole Cake Island was possible. It was almost like it was before all this, like that very first meeting between the two of them, before either knew of their fate.

Then, Rocinante excuses himself with a polite, “Good night,” and heads back to his designated space without a second thought.

He seems relaxed, or resigned, to this fate that Katakuri still cannot accept himself. He must realize that Katakuri could easily break him to pieces. That the moment be becomes obsolete, they will be rid of him.

Why hasn’t he made use of the blackmail? Why isn’t he trying to escape? 

_ What is he playing at? _


End file.
